I looked up. "How about tomorrow night for what?"
"I talked to Lettie earlier and we were thinking that tomorrow night would be the best time for you to talk to your father. And that they should come over here."
I scratched my head. "Is that a good idea? Kinda like revisiting the scene of the crime."
"But with Mrs. Strakova's cooking."
I nodded. "That's hard to beat." I looked back down in the safe.
"How's the stock in the mountain?"
I laughed. "I thought we agreed that, once my father had moved his stuff across the street, that we wouldn't call it the mountain anymore."
Carter grinned and said, "I can't help it, son. I know that was your little joke with Janet but I'll always imagine we're sitting on top of a mountain when we're in here. And I kinda like that."
"Fine. And to answer your question, I need to get another hundred thousand from Bank of America. That'll bring us back up to a million."
Carter whistled.
"What?" I asked as I closed the safe door and spun the dial.
"A million. Sometimes it doesn't seem real to me."
I nodded and closed the briefcase. "You and me, both. But there's another thing that keeps pushing at me and I guess it's my father's fear of being broke. I'm pretty sure that's why he put this in here."
I stood and put the briefcase in its usual spot, just behind a bookcase that appeared to be flush to the wall but wasn't. As I did that, Carter moved a Chinese-style octagonal table back into its spot. It stood in the middle of the room and covered the spot where the safe was located. To reveal the safe, all you had to do was to push gently on the table and it shifted to the side. Of course, you had to know which of the eight sides to push, otherwise it wouldn't budge. It was quite ingenious and something that my father had installed right after he married Lettie. Previously, an old Persian rug, cut to cover the floor, had to be pulled up to open the safe. Lettie had restored the beautiful inlaid floor to its original 1906 shine. The rug, re-cut and cleaned up, was now sitting in their living room across the street.
Gustav walked in right then and said, "The dinner is ready."
I nodded and said, "We'll be right there. Thanks, Gustav."
He smiled and left.
Carter crossed his arms and looked down at me. "You're gonna have to stop coddling those two."
"How so?"
"You're propping up their relationship."
I shrugged. "What can I say?"
Carter walked over and put his hands on my shoulders. Looking deep into my eyes, he said, "Say that you'll let them break up if that's what's coming."
I sighed. "Of course. But..." I avoided his gaze by looking out the front windows. The sun was setting and casting long shadows.
He shook me gently. "Listen to me, Nick."
I looked up at him. "What?"
"I know you love love and all that, but you have to learn not to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong."
"OK."
Carter frowned. "There's something about Gustav and Ferdinand that's different from Ida and Nora. Those gals are truly, deeply in love." He frowned. "It's almost like the boys are bonded because of whatever happened in that awful hospital in Czechoslovakia when they were supposed to be cured of being homosexuals." He sighed heavily. "It isn't fair of us to try to keep them together when maybe they don't belong together."
I grinned. "Us?"
"Yeah. I'll admit it. I was trying to do the same thing. But I washed my hands of it today at the gym."
"What happened?"
"I told Ferdinand that if he wanted to fuck William to go ahead and do it but to not come crying to me if Gustav got mad."
I laughed. "What'd he say?"
"You know that kid. He tried to get icy on me."
"How'd you handle it?"
"We got in the ring and I didn't hold back, like I normally do."
My eyes widened in alarm. "And?"
"He's a helluva boxer, that kid." He gave me a kiss on the forehead and then turned me towards the door. "Dinner's getting cold."
. . .
Once we were all seated around the kitchen table, I asked Nora, "How's your art coming along?" She was quite a talented painter. We'd set up a studio for her in the attic.
Nora's cherubic face turned a faint red and she ran her hand behind her neck.
Ida proudly said, "My Nora will have a show in a gallery, Mr. Nick. It begin on the next Saturday." Ida was tall and angular compared to Nora's curvy figure. They sat next to each other and between Carter and Mrs. Strakova, who sat at the far end of the table by the sink while Mrs. Kopek was on my right at the near end by the back door. Ferdinand was on my left with Gustav between him and Mrs. Strakova.
When they'd all started working for us during the previous summer, I'd made a rule that we would eat with them in the kitchen whenever we could. It was ridiculous for Carter and me to sit in the dining room by ourselves. It also forced them all to speak in English instead of Czech.
I smiled at Nora. "Congratulations! We'll definitely be there."
She smiled at me demurely while Carter asked, "Will any of your paintings be for sale?"
Ida stiffened slightly. "Art is not for sale, Mr. Carter."
I grinned and looked at Nora whose expression had shifted from a kind of shy pride to minor annoyance. "What did the gallery owner have to say about that?"
Ida dismissed my question. "What she says matters not. Art for art's sake. No?"
I shook my head. "This isn't communist Czechoslovakia. If she's hanging Nora's art in her gallery, then it'll be for sale."
Ida huffed and stirred her soup.
Mrs. Strakova said, "There are many famous painters from Prague who sold their art in Vienna and Budapest during the Empire."
I thought Ida was going to explode. "That is the bourgeois way, is it not? One rises above the working class into the petite bourgeoisie and then the comfortable, fat middle class and, soon, one is in the oppressing upper classes."
I tried very hard not to laugh.
Carter calmly asked, "Are we oppressing you, Ida?"
She shrugged. "Of you, I do not speak. You are homosexuals. You cannot oppress."
I laughed. "A lot of people would disagree with you. What about Alexander the Great?"
She brushed that away. "He was a child."
I turned and looked at Ferdinand, knowing I was throwing a live hand grenade into a foxhole. "What do you think about that, Ferdinand?"
He briefly glanced at me. He said something harsh in Czech. Ida retorted vigorously.
Mrs. Kopek interrupted his reply. "English, please."
Without pointing, Ferdinand looked at Ida. "She say that Alexander is a child and does not know what he does."
"Is that right?" I asked. "So, the conquering of Persia was just a fluke?"
Ida frowned. "A fluke?"
"A mistake."
She shrugged dismissively.
"Did anyone ask the Persians if they wanted to be conquered?" I glanced over at Carter, who winked at me.
She shrugged again.
"And what about J. Edgar Hoover?" asked Carter.
Ida sighed. "I do not know this man."
Gustav replied. "He is head of American security police. F.B.I." He over-pronounced the three initials.
She frowned. "What about him?"
Carter said, "Many people, including Nick and I, believe he's one of us. He has a male secretary and they go everywhere together."
She dismissed that with a wave of her hand. "He is a tool of the oppressors."
I nodded. "I don't disagree with you there, but let's get back to why Nora isn't allowed to sell her paintings."
Ida sat up in surprise. "But, Mr. Nick, I not say this. Nora is a free woman. She may sell or not sell."
Carter added, with a mischievous grin on his face, "But you have a lot to say about it."
"Yes," replied Nora as she leaned around Ida to look at Carter. "She has many things
to say about many things."
Carter and I both laughed, along with Mrs. Kopek and Mrs. Strakova. For some reason, the four kids didn't think it was that funny.
Chapter 14
The Silver Rail
974 Market Street
Saturday, March 12, 1955
Just before midnight
Carter pulled the door open for me as we walked into The Silver Rail. As usual, the hustlers were standing along the bar, while the potential johns were nervously sitting at the tables and the booths.
At the end of the bar, I could see the older man who appeared to manage the place. He caught me looking at him and he nodded very slightly. I'd seen him in that very spot a little over a month earlier, when I'd first met with Ricky after not seeing him since '39.
As we walked past the gauntlet of mouthy hustlers, we both got a number of whistles and propositions. Carter got much more than me. As I glanced over at the tables and booths, I noticed that the men were openly staring at Carter. He was fresh meat and I figured they were all wondering how much it would cost to get him alone for an hour.
As we passed a phone booth, a drunken man stumbled out and fell onto me. As I pushed him back, I realized it was Sam. It was the first time I'd seen him since he'd been in the hospital with a Chinese flu. He looked a lot thinner. He whispered, "He's down there talking to three guys."
I nodded and walked up to the older man at the end of the bar.
He nodded. I put a folded-over hundred on the bar. He quickly grabbed it, pocketed it, and then nodded towards the back area where the hidden stairs were.
I made my way in that direction. Just as I was about to push back the heavy curtain that disguised the door to the stairs that led down to the tunnels below, I heard the old man growl, "One at a time."
I glanced back at Carter, who was looking down at a .38 revolver. The old man was pointing it at him, out of sight of any of the other patrons. Carter nodded and said, "Fine." He turned and stood in front of the old man, crossing his arms as he did. He nodded at me.
I knew he wanted to go with me but I'd been against that. We'd fought about it on the way over. I wanted Carter up there, in the bar, but that was as far as he could go. I knew how Ricky felt about Carter. And that he wouldn't want to see Carter. I felt grateful to the old guy for doing what he did. It saved me the trouble of having to do something similar myself.
I turned and pushed the door open. It silently gave way as I let the curtains fall back behind me. The stairs were dimly lit. I slowly crept down, breathing in the musty air. I could hear male voices talking.
"That isn't what you promised," said the first voice.
"Yeah, well. Times are tough all over." That was Ricky.
A second voice said, "You know we stuck our necks out for you by tapping those phones."
Ricky replied, "You say that but I know you wanted some dirt."
The first voice said, "Yeah. And we got some. But we can't keep meeting like this. If we get caught over here, anywhere near you—"
"Look. You know the deal. You tell me where he goes and I do those other little jobs for you. Who would think that some G-Men would be ordering mob hits?"
A third voice said, "Those are favors we're doing for our contacts."
"So, you admit you're no better than the mob?" asked Ricky.
Someone sighed. The first voice said, "Let's get back to the point of this little get-together. You promised you'd take out Jones. And you haven't delivered. That was part of the deal."
I stood perfectly still. I wasn't nervous anymore. I wasn't indecisive. But, as much as I wanted to rush in there, I couldn't. I did, however, begin to slowly pull my revolver out of my shoulder holster. Fortunately, the music from the jukebox in the bar above, along with traffic sounds from Market Street, were loud enough to mask the noise when I pulled back the hammer on the gun. I'd heard enough. I was ready to pull the trigger myself and end the whole mess.
Those were the three rogue Bureau agents. No question. And they were working with Ricky. Or he was working with them. It was hard to tell.
I was standing about halfway down the stairs. They ended in the middle of a tunnel. Ricky's office, which was really a storeroom, opened up to the tunnel a few feet from where the stairs ended.
From what I'd heard, the tunnel had been built during Prohibition to provide ways to move booze in and people out whenever the police made a raid. Its use at that particular moment was to move people out of The Silver Rail and The Old Crow, a few doors down the street, whenever the police made a raid. Instead of booze, the police were looking for queers.
Wherever the agents went, they wouldn't be going past me and up the stairs. It was too risky for them to be seen moving through and out of The Silver Rail. I figured there was a street exit from the tunnel. Since the Warfield Theater sat at one end, it was probably at the other end, where Turk and Mason intersected at Market.
"Yeah, well, like I said, we all got troubles." That was Ricky.
"What about that photograph?" asked the first voice.
"What about it?"
"Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Nope. I know that story. That gorilla fireman ain't never swung for dames. What you got there is just some friendly conversation. You three don't know nothing about us queers. You're like The Three Stooges." I could hear whatever it was that was off about Ricky in his voice right at that moment.
He continued, "I should just call you Larry, Curly, and Moe." I heard a sound I couldn't quite make out at first.
The first voice nervously asked, "What's that? You said no guns."
Instead of a reply, I heard three muffled shots, one right after another, followed by the sound of bodies falling to the ground. I waited and listened. There was no moaning or any other sound. They were dead.
Holding my gun at my side, I slowly walked down the rest of the stairs and into the room where Ricky was standing. He was picking his nose with his pinky, and casually looking at the dead bodies of the three F.B.I. agents.
He turned and saw me. He immediately broke into a grin. "How was Boston?"
I frowned. "Why?"
He walked towards me. He was wearing a perfectly tailored blue pin-stripe suit with purple tie, a black hat, and shiny black shoes. He stood just over five feet. The top of his perfectly pomaded head was just below my chin. He got right up in front of me and took my gun out of my hand. I didn't resist his doing so. I felt deflated. I knew I couldn't kill him, no matter how crazy he was. No matter how much harm he did to other people.
Looking at the revolver for a moment, he said, "Good piece. Later on, I'll show you some better ones." He uncocked the hammer and then asked, "Shoulder holster?"
I nodded mutely.
Pulling my coat back, he put the gun back in the holster under my left arm, and then closed the coat.
He looked up at me with a smile and took my cold left hand in his right and ran his left hand over the back of mine. "I love you, Nick. You know that."
It was odd. I began to wonder if it was all just really a dream.
Ricky kissed the back of my hand and said, "Now they'll never bother you again, Nick." He grinned. "Nicky. I like that better. Nicky. Why didn't I ever call you that in the old days? Yeah, Nicky. My little boy, Nicky." He sighed contentedly.
I looked down at him and asked, "What about Carter?"
He shrugged, looking mildly irritated. "What about him? I've known you longer than anyone. Longer than that ape cop you went to live with when you left me. Longer that the sailor you picked up in the Navy and who dropped you like a hot potato. Longer than your lawyer who never really loved you, Nicky." He shook his head and sighed. "And, longer than that fireman. Longer than anyone." He shrugged.
The fact that he mentioned Mack and Jeffery in my list of lovers scared me and I didn't know why. I wondered how he knew about them.
"Yeah. Longer than anyone except for your evil old man and, of course, your sweet mother. That was always the problem between
us, wasn't it?"
I had no idea what he meant so I waited.
He smiled. It was radiant and eerie and frightening all at once. His voice softened, as if he was trying to tell me something important, something beyond me, and the best way was to speak slowly and confidently so I would understand. "You know what I mean. The two of us, running wild in the streets. No one cared. Not even that big ape of a cop." There had been five of us. I wondered why he had said two.
After a moment, I carefully said, "Your mother cared."
He frowned. "No. She didn't care. Not really. You don't know what happened with her." He looked down at my hand in his for a long moment. Suddenly, he looked up. His frown had smoothed out and the radiant smile was back. "But when it was just you and me, it was like heaven. Doncha remember?"
I didn't. Not like that.
He reached up and caressed my cheek. "Oh, Nicky. I've been waiting for this for so long. Now," he paused and looked down at the bodies on the floor. "There's no one left to stand between us."
I was terrified to ask about Carter. But I wanted to find out what he was fixated on. Was it me? Was it a memory? Was it the idea of what we could be? So, I pulled a thought out of my ass. "What about the people who work for me?"
He shrugged. "You're never there anyway. That big ape runs the show." He smiled. "And he's good. He's getting noticed."
I nodded. I wanted to know what that meant but, then again, I didn't.
He put his hand on my face again. For some reason, I noticed how short and stubby his fingers were. I wondered if they'd always been like that. I couldn't remember.
Pulling down my face, he stretched up on his toes. His shoes squeaked as he kissed me lightly on the cheek. The aroma of bay rum filled my nose. He was as dandied up as he'd been the last time I'd seen him in that same spot.
"We need each other, Nicky boy. You need, well, you need someone to take care of you. Like a real papa should. Not like that evil old man who calls himself your father."
I looked into his eyes. They were so clear and cold, it was like looking into nothing. "And you think you could be that..." I reached for the right word. "That man."
He nodded condescendingly as if I'd just pronounced a difficult word. "Yes, Nicky. I do. I've been watching you. All we need is to get away from this town, from all the traffic and the noise. From everyone. And then, when we're alone, I'll show you what I mean."
The Paradoxical Parent (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 13) Page 15
